


burning corpses

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Pre-Game(s), vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: she always thought the thing that burned more than anything was her grandmas stare.





	burning corpses

Death is death.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Maki has always thought that, she knew no matter how much life was around her, death would always remain. Maybe that's why when she clutched her grandmas hand, wind blowing her loose hair, her face was blank.

The cemetery didn't smell like anything in particular, the chilly air blowing through her sweater. She walked, a pass brisk, through the tombs. Her grandmas hand was soft, moldable and wrinkly from the sands of time. If there was any word she had to pick to describe her grandma, the last one on the list was soft.

She steps up the stairs to the chapel, bodies in the golden walls, a tomb.

Her grandmother traces the words on the wall, engraved with care and time, reciting names and dates from people they don't know. She comments on the flowers left under them, the floor a home for forgotten people's gifts, dreams they never got in this life. Maki balls her fists, short nails starting to bite into her flesh, not hard enough to break the skin. All her grandmother knows is their age and name, something she'll forget in an instant, as fleeting as their lives. It makes her want to scream, scream that the dead with their broken bones and used up lives weren't something to gawk at, to point and remark on as if you knew them, could ever know them. They are dead, and that's all they'll ever be, anymore.

Her grandma turns, looking at the gilded cage of a chapel, fully bloomed flowers—their lives at their peak, right before they start to rot away—

"Isn't this place beautiful?" She asked, voice echoing.

Its been three years since they died, the people in the chunk of wall in front of her. Her last name is just as much engraved into her mind as the wall in front of her.

"No," she said, voice as quiet and still as the graves, "it's not."

She tastes ash in her mouth, and turns to leave, her grandmas hand slipping from her own.

Death was death.

Such a thing could never be beautiful.


End file.
